decided that the car had to be kept secret.
It was only because of an accident that John Q. Public ever even got a hint that such a car existed. One of the experimental models somehow got mixed in with a regular shipment of cars. It wound up in a dealership in Cleveland where a woman bought it. She kept driving the car and driving it, and the tank never seemed to empty. She thought there was something wrong with the car, and she took it back to the dealer for repairs!
Meanwhile back in Detroit, company bigwigs were frantically looking for the missing experimental model. As soon as they got wind of what had happened in Cleveland, they rushed down there. They gave the lady a new car and $30,000 for her "trouble." They told her to keep quiet about the car because it might give the company a bad name.
Of course, Detroit always denies that such a car has ever existed. What do you expect them to do?
—————
Would you like to buy a World War II vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle for $75? That may not mean much to the average person, but it makes a motorcycle freak's mouth water.
It seems that back at the beginning of World War II the army bought up thousands of Harley-Davidsons and stored them in a huge warehouse in west Texas. Then with typical army bureaucratic bungling, they just forgot about the motorcycles. All of those motorcycles had been sitting in the warehouse for nearly forty years before someone discovered them. They are in perfect condition.
The army has been discreetly offering the Harley-Davidsons for sale at $75 each. But you have to buy them in lots of five, and it's very hard to find out exactly which army department is selling them.
All of these cheap-wheels stories have become classic modern legends. The story that folklorists label "The Philanderer's Porsche" has not only been retold as true all over the country, but versions of it have also appeared in newspapers both here and in Europe,
Novice reporters have been known to spend hours trying to track down the source of rumors about the experimental car that runs on water, or about the mint-condition Harley-Davidsons or Model A Fords or whatever that had somehow been shunted aside and were now being offered for sale. While plenty of people have heard the rumors, the original sources never seem to be known.
The Solid Cement Cadillac
Harry Eames was really crazy about his wife, Julie. He was always kind and considerate. He never forgot her birthday or their anniversary. All she had to do was express the slightest desire to have something, and Harry would move heaven and earth to get it for her.
The relationship wasn't quite perfect. Harry had one fault—he was insanely jealous. If Julie so much as smiled at another man, Harry would blow up. He distrusted the mailman, the milkman, the delivery man, the meter reader, the paperboy—every male that Julie might come in contact with when he wasn't around.
They had a thousand fights over his jealousy. Harry would always wind up admitting that Julie was right. She had never given him any cause to be jealous. Besides, this was the twentieth century. She could not be locked up in a harem or go about the streets with her face hidden behind a veil. Harry knew that his jealousy was irrational and destructive. He did everything he could to curb it. He made resolution after resolution.
Often weeks would go by and he would be just as sweet as could be. Julie would begin to hope and even to believe that he had finally conquered his mad jealousy. Then one day there would be some trivial incident. Julie might smile at the vegetable man in thc A & P, and that would set him off. He would explode, and there would be a big fight and the inevitable reconciliation in which Harry would abjectly admit to his bad behavior and swear that he would do better next time.
On this particular day, Harry was going through one of his regular periods of deep remorse. He felt that his jealousy was wrecking his marriage. Harry
It was only because of an accident that John Q. Public ever even got a hint that such a car existed. One of the experimental models somehow got mixed in with a regular shipment of cars. It wound up in a dealership in Cleveland where a woman bought it. She kept driving the car and driving it, and the tank never seemed to empty. She thought there was something wrong with the car, and she took it back to the dealer for repairs!
Meanwhile back in Detroit, company bigwigs were frantically looking for the missing experimental model. As soon as they got wind of what had happened in Cleveland, they rushed down there. They gave the lady a new car and $30,000 for her "trouble." They told her to keep quiet about the car because it might give the company a bad name.
Of course, Detroit always denies that such a car has ever existed. What do you expect them to do?
—————
Would you like to buy a World War II vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle for $75? That may not mean much to the average person, but it makes a motorcycle freak's mouth water.
It seems that back at the beginning of World War II the army bought up thousands of Harley-Davidsons and stored them in a huge warehouse in west Texas. Then with typical army bureaucratic bungling, they just forgot about the motorcycles. All of those motorcycles had been sitting in the warehouse for nearly forty years before someone discovered them. They are in perfect condition.
The army has been discreetly offering the Harley-Davidsons for sale at $75 each. But you have to buy them in lots of five, and it's very hard to find out exactly which army department is selling them.
All of these cheap-wheels stories have become classic modern legends. The story that folklorists label "The Philanderer's Porsche" has not only been retold as true all over the country, but versions of it have also appeared in newspapers both here and in Europe,
Novice reporters have been known to spend hours trying to track down the source of rumors about the experimental car that runs on water, or about the mint-condition Harley-Davidsons or Model A Fords or whatever that had somehow been shunted aside and were now being offered for sale. While plenty of people have heard the rumors, the original sources never seem to be known.
The Solid Cement Cadillac
Harry Eames was really crazy about his wife, Julie. He was always kind and considerate. He never forgot her birthday or their anniversary. All she had to do was express the slightest desire to have something, and Harry would move heaven and earth to get it for her.
The relationship wasn't quite perfect. Harry had one fault—he was insanely jealous. If Julie so much as smiled at another man, Harry would blow up. He distrusted the mailman, the milkman, the delivery man, the meter reader, the paperboy—every male that Julie might come in contact with when he wasn't around.
They had a thousand fights over his jealousy. Harry would always wind up admitting that Julie was right. She had never given him any cause to be jealous. Besides, this was the twentieth century. She could not be locked up in a harem or go about the streets with her face hidden behind a veil. Harry knew that his jealousy was irrational and destructive. He did everything he could to curb it. He made resolution after resolution.
Often weeks would go by and he would be just as sweet as could be. Julie would begin to hope and even to believe that he had finally conquered his mad jealousy. Then one day there would be some trivial incident. Julie might smile at the vegetable man in thc A & P, and that would set him off. He would explode, and there would be a big fight and the inevitable reconciliation in which Harry would abjectly admit to his bad behavior and swear that he would do better next time.
On this particular day, Harry was going through one of his regular periods of deep remorse. He felt that his jealousy was wrecking his marriage. Harry
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